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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640142">Dark Waters, Sweet Waves</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandoverlord/pseuds/Grandoverlord'>Grandoverlord</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Voyeurism, Also concidentally Tim being a brat, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Tim having a Rough Time of Things, little an aftercare. as a treat., turns to purposeful and consensual voyeurism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:29:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,848</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28640142</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grandoverlord/pseuds/Grandoverlord</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Gonna put me over your knee, boss? Give me the ole one-two for getting in the way of an honest day’s work for Evil Incorporated?” His knee bounces higher, and he knows that he’s a mess. Jesus.  </p><p>“Someone’s got to.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>188</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Shallows</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is very much inspired by the Triptych series, in which JonMarTim is an established relationship where Tim subs, Martin doms, and Jon participates as he sees fit. </p><p>For anyone who's wondering, Jon is still very much ace in this fic-- but I should add the cw that this will include him participating in sex scenes, so if that's not your piece of pie here's a heads up!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So Tim’s a little tense. Sue him. </p><p>It starts in the morning, when a headache tears him from sleep at an ungodly hour and does its best to liquefy his skull-- probably just stress, he knows, but with everything going on, he figures it’s just as likely to be the unspeakable horror of the week. Which would be unfair-- it’s Saturday. Creatures from the deep do not call for two to three business days. </p><p>And so he rolls out of bed with discomfort already simmering in his stomach, feet landing quiet as a cat on the carpeted floor, and goes about his day from hell. </p><p>It’s not even that bad. Sure, he forgets that the boiler doesn’t turn on until six and gets drenched with freezing water before he can spring out of the shower, and he’s been too busy to go shopping-- so leftovers for breakfast it is-- and when he goes to do the dishes he finds a mug he’d missed clearing up for the last week, so that’s mold on top of everything else-- but really, it’s not that bad. A string of minor inconveniences at worst.</p><p>And so he can’t explain <em> why </em> he feels like he does. He feels <em> possessed </em>-- but by what he can’t say. A firework burning blindly into the night. A run does nothing to tame the current jumping just under his skin, the conductor urging his pulse to frantic tempo every time he tries to sit still. </p><p>Eventually his stomping around wakes Martin up, but he’s off on errands before Tim can even mention it to him-- not that he would anyway. Because it’s not a big deal. Sucks, but it’s <em> fine. </em> </p><p>Tim just happens to want to break something. </p><p>He settles for scrubbing down the flat. </p><p>Jon is quiet as he does, perched birdlike on the sofa with his laptop in front of him and a cup of green tea to his side. He’s only started drinking the stuff since Martin’s dropped some pointed comments about caffeine consumption and insomnia. He doesn’t even object when Tim demands that he move so that he can hoover the sofa. But he’s <em> there </em> the whole time, and Tim can feel his gaze in a way that makes his jaw clench. </p><p>Which, again, is fine. Jon has as much of a right to be here as Tim does, and it’s not like he spills his tea on <em> purpose </em> when he does, and he’s not even saying anything, just tapping away at some case or another for the institute that’s done its best to ruin their lives. <em> Normal weekend activities. </em></p><p>Tim shoves the hoover back into its closet and closes the door with a little more force than necessary. Jon’s eyes snap up at the sound, and Tim finds himself unable to even look at him as he moves on to the kitchen. Plenty to do in there. </p><p>“Tim, could you put the kettle on?” Jon calls from the other room. Tim bites back the acrid response that rises in his throat, chooses silence over snideness. “Tim?” Jon calls again. </p><p>“Sure thing, boss,” Tim makes himself say. He even manages to imitate levity.</p><p>He flicks the electric kettle on without giving himself time to think about why he’s so annoyed about a simple request. That’s the trick-- he just needs to not think. </p><p>His fingers thrum on the counter top as he waits for the kettle to boil.</p><p>If it weren’t barely past noon, he’d be reaching for a drink. Not exactly Coping 101, but it would let out some of the <em> whatever </em> it is that’s stretching his shoulders into a hard line, turn him from solid and almost shaking with the unnameable to liquid, languorous and easy.  </p><p>The kettle clicks off and Tim snatches a mug from the cupboard, throws in a teabag. Thinks about sugar or milk, but can’t be asked. There’s something about the bitterness of black tea that he feels like he’ll like right now, anyway. </p><p>He thinks about making Jon a cup as well. But technically, all he’d asked Tim to do was put on the kettle. Which he’s done. He doesn’t exactly <em> like </em> the little satisfaction that thought brings him, but there’s some sort of vindication lurking in there. What for, Tim couldn’t say. </p><p>But his tea is the first thing he enjoys today. </p><p>He enjoys it even more when he returns to the living room-- because as long as he’s made himself tea, he might as well take a break. Jon looks up with interest when Tim enters the room, but his brow soon furrows when he realizes that Tim and his mug have no intention of making their way over to the sofa. </p><p>“How goes the toil?” Tim asks, sipping on his tea. It’s too hot. He drinks it anyway. </p><p>“Fine,” Jon says. He’s quiet for a long moment, and Tim is almost disappointed by the lack of reaction. “Just doing some digging on an old case. Seeing if I can unearth anything with a new translation of a source that previously was only available in Russian.” </p><p>“Is it good and eldritch?” </p><p>“Adequately.” Jon places his laptop to the side and stands, rolling his shoulders to work out a crick in his neck. On another day, Tim might ask if he wanted a massage. Instead he bites his tongue. “I’m going to make a cup of coffee,” Jon says.  </p><p>“And what would Martin think of that?” </p><p>“I couldn’t guess. Are you planning on telling him?” Jon shoots back. </p><p>Tim feels a grin rise to his lips-- a sharp one. “We’ll see.” </p><p>Jon is not a big man, and with his sparrow-slight shoulders more often hunched in on themselves than not, it would be easy for Tim to move out of the doorway to let Jon pass by. </p><p>But he doesn’t, and shifts just enough that Jon can’t slip around him without their shoulders knocking together. </p><p>Jon frowns at this, but once again he doesn’t comment. </p><p>And this is how it goes. </p><p>Martin’s out all day with errands and Jon’s busy and Tim is up the wall about <em> nothing </em>, or maybe everything, and once he runs out of things to clean he can feel it chasing up his blood like he’s a goddamn werewolf on a full moon. He stretches, checks his social media, thinks about watching something-- but he can’t sit still long enough for a video on his phone. A movie is out of the question. </p><p><em> What the hell is wrong with you? </em> He thinks as he throws himself into an armchair. His leg jitters against the worn fabric. He’s got a few answers, and he doesn’t like any of them. </p><p>“Statement of Natasha Morozova, concerning a hard winter and--” Tim doesn’t look up at the sound, but he can hear the disdain in Jon’s voice. “--hostile snow.” </p><p>It doesn’t take long for Jon’s voice to fade into its normal reading rhythm, that deep incantory rise and fall that Tim’s used to love to listen to. </p><p>“Do you have to do that here?” Tim finally snaps. </p><p>“--but it was August, you understand. It is cold where I am from, but there should be no blizzards in August.” </p><p>“Jon.” </p><p>The tape recorder clicks off. “You can leave, if you like.” </p><p>“And you can’t?” </p><p>Jon presses a button on the recorder in lieu of reply. “Statement of Natasha Morozova, regarding an unusual winter. When I woke up, I thought perhaps that there had been a volcanic eruption. Ash, you know? It’s not unheard of--” </p><p><em> “Jon. </em>”</p><p>A sigh, and the tape recorder clicks off again. “Please don’t speak while I’m recording. I have to start over each time,” Jon explains. </p><p>“Heartbroken for you.” </p><p> “Statement of Natasha Morozova--” </p><p>“Regarding the spookiest snowflakes ever to fall this side of the equator.” </p><p>Jon places the recorder in his lap. “Let’s not be childish,” he chides. </p><p>“Childish would’ve been making an evil Frosty the Snowman joke. I stuck with the classic snowflake refrain. Go on, try again. I’ve got some better ones brewing.” </p><p>“I don’t see the point, if you’re determined to interrupt me.” </p><p> “The point is that it’s <em> fun, </em> boss.” Tim puts his phone down, leans forward, resting his arms on a jumping leg. Hoping to still it.  </p><p>Jon gives Tim a long, calculating look. Tim’s surprised he hasn’t just left by now-- his archivist is stubborn, but not usually to the point of real argument. There’s something hard in that stare, a consideration that none of their usual bickering elicits in him. Tim pushes ahead and, as ever, tries not to think about it.  </p><p>“So, back to Natasha. Let me guess, she wakes up to find her nose is bright red and the other kids don’t want to play with her?” </p><p>“If you consider Frosty the Snowman childish, I fail to see how Rudolph is an improvement,” Jon comments. He flips through the statement to the back of the folder, where one of the other assistants must’ve done some follow-up.  </p><p>“And I can’t tell the difference between a Picasso and a drunk six year old’s work. Doesn’t mean a connoisseur can’t tell the difference.” </p><p> “You corrected Martin last week when he called a Renoir a Monet.” </p><p>“Then perhaps you’re willing to admit that I do know what I’m talking about. And Rudolph,” Tim gestures a little too wildly, a little fervidly, caught on the velocity of his own words, “is in a different <em> league</em>.” </p><p> Jon doesn’t respond, and Tim crushes down a moment of panic. <em> Too much? </em> It’s so hard to tell-- Jon has always seemed willing to tolerate so much of what Tim is, even if he rolls his eyes about it, but it wouldn’t be the first time Tim has crossed a line without realizing he’s taking the step. </p><p>Tim likes to know the rules. He likes to know what he can ask for and to be able to have it all without feeling like a glutton. He likes to push-- anyone who knows him knows that-- but it’s not because he wants more than someone is willing to give. He just wants to feel the wall.</p><p>Over on the sofa, Jon gently closes the folder. “Tim, come here for a moment.” </p><p>And Tim knows he should be quiet. If Jon really is angry at him, he’s only going to make it worse by mouthing off, maybe drive something deep enough between them that a good night’s sleep won’t make it better-- and yet. And, as always for Tim, yet. </p><p>“Gonna put me over your knee, boss? Give me the ole one-two for getting in the way of an honest day’s work for Evil Incorporated?” His knee bounces higher, and he knows that he’s a mess. Jesus.  </p><p>“Someone’s got to.” </p><p>Tim’s mouth goes dry. And then Jon’s face goes red, but he still lifts his eyebrows as if to ask the question. Pulse fluttering in his throat, Tim just stares.  </p><p>“Seems to me like you’ve been asking for it all day,” Jon murmurs, and though he doesn’t even <em> do </em> anything, really, it feels like someone’s snatched the floor out from under Tim and he’s sliding down it, his stomach dropping to his toes and a spark of heat coming to replace it, curling in his gut. The air is different. Full. </p><p>“Look at you, ready to take arms against me. Well,” Tim says, leaning back in his chair. “I’m all yours.”</p><p>And yes, he’s being a shit. It’s what he <em> does</em>. But this is Jon, whose involvement often ends at the eyes, if that, and Tim doesn’t want whatever’s going on with him to feel like pressure. He doesn’t want to <em> take</em>. Whatever Jon wants to give him though-- he’ll eat it whole. </p><p>Jon makes no move towards rising. “I think you’re going to cut this out,” he states. “And be a proper person for me. Because if you do it now, I’ll go far easier on you than Martin will.” </p><p>“Maybe I <em> want </em> it rough, boss.” </p><p>“Not like that, you don’t. If I asked him to, I’m sure Martin would leave you for hours, all dressed up with nowhere to go. He’d wind you up and then bring you down and at the end of it, he’d just leave. And you’d accept that from him, wouldn’t you?” </p><p>Tim swallows against the anticipation in his throat. Here’s that feeling again, the <em> danger</em>. He’s always liked it a little too much for his own good, but here-- he thinks it could be <em> very </em>good. </p><p>“Guess we’ll find out,” Jon continues. “Unless you decide to make an effort. I won’t force you.” </p><p>“Shame.”</p><p>Jon rakes his eyes over him again, and Tim feels a shudder ripple up his spine. The patience in those eyes, the delicious distance. Tim grins, and it is just as sharp but now he knows the rules-- this he gets. </p><p>“Tell me, Tim. Did you wake up planning this, or is your generally atrocious behavior today improvised?” </p><p>“Tell me, boss, did you?” </p><p>“Truth be told,” Jon says carefully, and Tim can tell he’s picking his words with the kind of precision he <em> wished </em> people had when he worked in publishing, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”</p><p>“Oh, have you, now?” Tim quirks an eyebrow. </p><p>“As if you haven’t. If your <em> interactions </em> with Martin are anything to go by, you think about being put on your knees more than you care to admit.” </p><p>Tim raises a hand, as if in mock vow. “I’ll admit anything to anyone. You just say the word.” </p><p>“Do it, then.” </p><p>“Do what? Gotta be specific.”</p><p>Rolling his eyes, Jon leans back on the sofa and then the corners of his lips twitch up in a smile. Sardonic. Almost patronizing-- and yeah, that does it for Tim. “Admit to me,” Jon says. “What you think about. How you think about me.” </p><p>“Where to <em> begin </em> , Jon!” It comes out a little breathless. Because his mind has gone blank and any thoughts he’s ever had are quite possibly <em> unthinking themselves </em> as he scrambles for them. </p><p>But maybe Jon sees that, because he shoots back. “I have some suggestions.”</p><p>“I bet you do.” And the words come flooding back to him. It’s just Jon. And God help him, it’s <em> Jon. </em> “Let’s see. Over the last few days I’ve thought about sucking your cock, of course, about you bossing around Martin while he works me over-- I like that one, but you know what I liked even more?” He asks. “I’ve been thinking about your hands lately, how it’d feel to have one wrapped around my cock, the other round my throat,” he says. </p><p>“Interesting.” </p><p>“Always eager to please.” </p><p>Jon snorts. “Hardly.” </p><p>“That wasn’t good enough for you?” Tim narrows his eyes. “You want details? You want to hear about how I--” </p><p>“You know what I want. I told you before. I want you to come here.” </p><p>And that would make it all real, wouldn’t it? All of this, it’s just toes in the water. To actually <em> be </em> there-- if Jon backs out now, it’d hardly be the first time someone’s safeworded out of a scene, but Tim feels <em> untethered </em>, and part of him fears that Jon will draw away from him altogether and leave him to fall. There’s no reason to think that he would, and yet still he is afraid. </p><p>So he tamps down the part of him that begs to bare its teeth until it is forced to be tamed-- for now.  He pushes a little bit more. Test the land. See if it’s safe before he steps. </p><p>“Awfully bossy, all of this,” Tim observes. </p><p>“Yes, maybe it is. Do it anyway, though.” </p><p>He’s taken a leap before. Gone bungee jumping off a bridge-- that was a hell of a fall. He’s climbed mountains and swum at night and done all sorts of insane, dangerous <em> shit </em> that he didn’t stop to think about because if he did common sense would hit him like a brick.</p><p>Somehow, standing feels like one of those moments. And as he settles before Jon-- as he falls to his knees and presses his head against the inside of Jon’s leg because he cannot yet bring himself to look up, it feels somehow <em> more</em>. A breath shudders out of him and he realizes that he is shaking. </p><p>Jon must be able to feel it too, because the hand that comes out to smooth Tim’s hair is tender. Tim leans into it before he can help himself. He doesn’t <em> want </em> to help himself. </p><p>“Now,” Jon murmured, his voice low and soft. “I believe you were saying.” </p><p>It’s a different thing to speak like this, head resting against Jon’s knee, looking up at him through his eyelashes. But he does. </p><p>“I was saying that I think about you.” </p><p>“I recall,” Jon says, his fingers carding through Tim’s hair-- never quite lingering enough to pull, but the hint is there. A suggestion of what he might do, and some of the fear starts to ebb, replaced by the heat of anticipation once more.  </p><p>“I was talking about your hands,” Tim manages. “They’re not big like Martin’s, not good for holding me down the same way, but I love how they feel on me. I like it when they brush up my side or hold my wrists together, like to wonder how they’d feel <em> in </em> me.” </p><p>Jon’s thumb comes to rest on Tim’s bottom lip and Tim freezes, wondering if it will push inside, if Jon would <em> want-- </em> they’ve done next to nothing, but Tim’s next breath shudders. </p><p>“Not bad,” Jon says. “Why don’t you strip for me while I get some things, and we’ll see what we can do about that?”</p><p>Though he misses the presence of Jon against his skin the second it’s gone, Tim-- miraculously, it seems, given how clumsy he feels stepping out of his clothes-- does as he’s told. When his clothes are folded he takes Jon’s spot on the sofa. </p><p>“I could’ve sworn I left you elsewhere.” Jon’s voice announces his return. </p><p>“Funny, that.” </p><p>“I know you know <em> how </em> to be good,” Jon says. “So why don’t we skip to that? I’ll let you choose your reward if you do.” </p><p>And <em> that’s </em>enough to get Tim slipping off the sofa and back to his knees. </p><p>“Lovely.” </p><p>Tim holds his body as still as he can as Jon rifles through the black bag he’s brought with him. He keeps his hands behind his back, his chin tipped up, his eyes gleaming with that note of defiance that he doesn’t want to leave behind just yet. </p><p>Out of the bag emerges a pair of black handcuffs, a blindfold, and a ball gag. </p><p>“Two out of three,” Jon says. “Your choice.” </p><p>His decision was made the second he saw them. “The handcuffs and the blindfold.” </p><p>“So you <em> do </em> know how to play nice.” </p><p>Tim doesn’t have a comeback to that one yet, just flushes and waits for Jon to make good on his promises. Every brush of Jon’s fingers against his skin as he paces around Tim, every flutter of breath across his face as Jon checks that the blindfold is just right-- there’s no hiding how hard he is, and Jon’s barely looked at him, let alone touched him.</p><p>The world is dark and Tim shudders under Jon’s touch. There’s nothing else. Nothing that matters, anyway, when he is so neatly constrained, held together-- Jon’s voice comes through it all. </p><p>“I’ve always thought you were pretty,” he says. “Since research. Wondered what it would be like to push you up against a wall and follow you up on any of your little offers. Not just to kiss you-- but to find out how you looked after, all flushed and debauched.” A hand settles in his hair and gives a little testing tug. “I know that now. It’s a good look for you.” </p><p>Tim groans at the touch. </p><p>“I particularly like the little look you make at Martin when he won’t give you what you want. Heartbroken and desperate and delighting in it.” </p><p>“Yeah, well--” Tim tries for bravado, doesn’t quite make it. “Martin can be a bit of a bastard in bed.” </p><p>“He takes good care of you.” </p><p>“But that’s on you tonight, isn’t it? So take care of me, boss.”</p><p>“I intend to.” </p><p>Tim jolts at the sudden sensation of warmth enveloping him as Jon’s hand wraps around his cock. He hadn’t been kidding earlier when he said that Jon’s hands did it for him, though he might’ve understated it by a certain magnitude or ten-- and feeling them now, slender and firm and demanding, is enough to make Tim feel out of his head. </p><p><em> Finally</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for checking this out, y'all! Once I've slapped together the second chapter (which may involve some Plans for Tim) and drawn this all to a conclusion I'll make everything good and proper-like. As always, comments are a boon and a blessing and I could not write without them!</p><p>Later Edit-- this was originally anonymous bc I'm a coward, but actually this is ao3 and there are no consequences, so.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Deeps</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tim borrows some self control.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Not gonna hang around, boss?” It’s just casual enough to hide the way Tim leans forwards, the way his body can’t help chasing Jon as he pulls away. He doesn’t go far, just sits back up on the sofa from the sound of it. Too far to touch Tim, though, and that’s all that matters. “Thought you were on to something there.” </p><p> “I’m afraid so,” Jon says. “Can’t just go about handing out something that hasn’t been earned.” </p><p>“After all that I do for you.”  </p><p>Jon snorts. “And what is that? Spend all day stomping round and causing problems? The way you’ve been just itching for a fight?” </p><p>“I also did the dishes.” </p><p>Jon’s hand tangles in Tim’s hair, grabs it thick and <em> jerks</em>. The gasp is half surprise, half sudden shot of arousal. </p><p>“Proving my point. Too focused on yourself to be good. You haven’t earned anything.”</p><p>It’d be all too easy to do it, too. Tim knows what it would look like-- how he’d draw his spine straight and let his shoulders drop, bow his head and tuck his hands together the way Martin-- Jon, probably-- likes. He knows it would look <em> good</em>. And if the way Jon’s hand strokes his hair means anything, it would probably <em> feel </em> good too. </p><p>But that’s not how these things work. Not when he already feels like this, half vibrating out of his skin at the brush of a few fingers, the tug of a hand. </p><p>“Oh, do scold me. Love it when your voice goes all arrogant and irritable.” </p><p>Instead of another pull, Tim gets absence. After a few long moments, the sound of papers shuffling. Moving the files out of the way? </p><p>Jon’s body shifts on the sofa and his warmth is gone. </p><p>Tim hands twitch, and the impulse to remove the blindfold is almost overwhelming, curiosity gnawing at him like embers at the edge of a fire. Is Jon just planning on leaving him like this? There’s a certain kind of power there, because for all he says Tim would <em> do </em>it, hold hard and still like this till his knees ached, wondering in his own darkness at every draft, asking if it was augury. </p><p>Jon’s voice rumbles from behind him and Tim’s train of thought is suspended in the air between them. “Hands.” </p><p>Tim cocks his head to the side. “What about them?” </p><p>Tim swears he can almost <em> hear </em> Jon roll his eyes. Jon reaches out and draws Tim’s hands together himself, gathers them at the small of his back and clicks the handcuffs securely round his wrists. </p><p>“How stern of you,” Tim remarks. Jon’s hands linger on his hands, and just that point of contact, that warmth-- it calls to the hum under his skin. He pushes against the cuffs and revels in how he is <em> contained</em>. “So what can I expect? A little bit of the crop, cuff about the ears? Gonna get me looking pretty and desperate for you?” </p><p>“I doubt I could stop you.” Jon’s hands lift off Tim’s skin for a moment, but rather than traveling to the sofa, Jon’s touch returns to Tim’s hips. </p><p>“I think you want to be hurt,” Jon starts, his hands skirting over Tim’s bare skin. Nowhere he wants-- <em> needs-- </em> to be touched, but it’s enough to keep him grounded, let him focus on the full purr of Jon’s voice. </p><p>“Told you as much,” Tim manages. </p><p>“Hm. But you say a lot of things you don’t mean.” Down his sides, over his ass, the backs of his thighs and back up again. “I think what you really want is to not <em> have </em> to want. So we’re doing things my way.” </p><p>Jon’s hands slide between Tim’s cheeks and ghost over him. “I think I’ll enjoy it anyway,” Tim murmurs.</p><p>“I’m counting on it.”</p><p>The sound of a cap flicking open, squeeze of the bottle, and there’s something pressing up against him-- not warm and giving as a finger would be, but slick and foreign. The tip of it is narrow enough to slip in without much resistance. Jon works just that much in and out of him for a few moments before pressing on, steady-- Tim thinks he recognizes it now, the plug with the flared base Martin sometimes has him wear on days he wants to play the long game. There’s a stretch, but it’s <em> satisfying</em>, discomfort sweet as scratching an itch.  </p><p>The plug comes to rest inside of him and Tim shudders. It’s not just a stretch, it’s a weight. </p><p>“That was easy enough, wasn’t it?” There’s a little shake to Jon’s voice, but it’s nothing compared to the raw edge Tim can hear in his own. </p><p>“Fuck, Jon-- I--” </p><p>“Mm.” </p><p>And then Jon pulls back again and really does go back to the sofa this time, taking his goddamn <em> time </em> settling down when Tim is going to start frothing at the mouth if Jon doesn’t get his hands on him <em> right now</em>. </p><p>A click. “Note: follow up with Martin on Rusalka fables-- is there a possible influence here on how Ms. Morozova describes her attackers?” </p><p>The click of the recorder turning off is loud as a gunshot. </p><p>“Jon.” </p><p>A page flips. The sound of scribbling pen. </p><p>“<em>Jon</em>.” </p><p>“Note: not only is the snow out of season, but Research points out that pomegranate season tends to run through the late fall to early winter, and this statement takes place at the height of summer.” </p><p>“Jon, you <em> have </em> to be fucking with me.” </p><p>Jon places a hand on Tim’s head in a placating gesture. “Do be quiet. I was working when you interrupted me, and I intend to finish.” </p><p>“And I--” </p><p>“And<em> you </em> are going to wait until I’m done.” </p><p>Whatever retort Tim’s got waiting on his tongue turns into a yelp as he realizes that, no, this isn’t the plug that he’s worn before, because that plug doesn’t <em> vibrate. </em> </p><p>“Something to keep you busy.” </p><p>Tim just lets out a stuttering breath as pleasure rolls through him, sudden and velvet-dark. It’s not sharp, the sort of heat of a hand on him, but it simmers in his gut, makes his hands curl against the suede of his cuffs. </p><p>Jon’s hand pets absently through his hair. “You should see yourself like this. The way your whole body shudders wherever you get anything-- I didn’t realize you wanted it that badly.” </p><p>“Always do,” Tim says, his back arching as he tries to chase the pleasure-- it’s not big enough to go where he wants it, not deep enough, but fuck if he’s not going to <em> try</em>. “Should know that by now.”</p><p>“Mm. That’s why you need handling, I suppose. Don’t have your own self control, so you’ll have to make do with mine.” </p><p>The vibration pulses higher, and Tim’s whole body flushes. “Jon--” </p><p>“Yes?” Jon asks, sounding almost distracted. </p><p>“Touch me?” </p><p>Jon’s hand comes to stroke down his face and Tim can’t help but lean into it. The plug shifts in him as he does and he gives a groan at the tug. “I am.” </p><p>“Pedant.” </p><p>A pause. Jon leaning forward, so close that Tim can feel his breath on his face. A hand around his cock again and a few delicious, electric pulls and Tim jolts forwards into his grasp. “Like this, you mean?” </p><p>It comes out a hiss. “<em>Yes.”  </em></p><p>“I thought you might.” Jon pulls away and before Tim can so much as make a whine of protest is speaking again. </p><p>“It is possible that these trees were simply fruiting early, but given the cold clime--” </p><p>Though his hand is gone, the plug isn’t going anywhere, and a particularly strong pulse wrenches a moan from Tim before he can stop himself. Jon breaks off abruptly. The plug stills inside him, and Tim is left in silence, caught in a darkness without even sensation to anchor him. </p><p>“You can do better than that,” is all Jon says, and then the plug comes back to life, more gently this time.</p><p><em> So that’s the game. </em> Tim’s better this time-- he still chases it, still shudders when the vibration starts to really work through him, but he chokes down his noises for a while as Jon works. It’s <em> maddening</em>, though, and he hopes Jon can feel Tim tensing against his leg so that he knows to get on with it.</p><p>“Hm,” Jon hums. “I could get used to this. You sitting quiet and pretty like this-- turns out you’re not bad at it. And you can imagine the view.” </p><p>He’s much more interested in imagining Jon-- knows that he’s sitting with his legs spread, Tim kneeling and bowed between them, work to his side, maybe-- Tim can almost <em> see </em> the way Jon’s head is tipped towards him, the evaluation in his eyes. He can’t help but squirm a bit under it-- knows that he’s being seen, <em> wanted</em>, like this. The idea of it is at least as intoxicating as the honey-sweet weight of the plug.</p><p>The vibration jumps up and his breath catches on the thought. That hitch is enough for a warning tightening of Jon’s grasp on his hair, and he does his best to choke down the noises he wants to make-- just buries his face against the side of Jon’s leg and lets the sensation wash over him.  </p><p>“You’re doing well,” Jon comments. “Trying. I appreciate that.” The approval flushes through him and he strangles the keen that comes with it. The plug and Jon’s praise and just the knowledge that all of him, <em> all of him </em>is in Jon’s hands-- </p><p>Jon makes a soft shushing noise and Tim starts-- hadn’t even realized that he’d been groaning, but there he is, and he flushes. He can’t believe that he’s already beyond himself, and Jon’s just there, perfectly composed and <em> watching</em>. </p><p>“If you can’t handle it quietly, I have no choice but to bring you back down,” Jon reminds him. “I want this to be good for you, but first you have to be good for me.” The way he explains it makes sense, but obviously <em> he </em> doesn’t have something stuck up his ass (and that’s a first, Tim thinks). </p><p>He can hear it buzzing. Will that make it into the tapes? Can’t bring himself to care-- doesn’t have the space for it, biting his lips and pushing back on something that he can’t get enough of, can’t get away from if he tried.</p><p>“Here,” Jon says. Under the blindfold, Tim furrows his brow; but his expression is entirely rewritten when he feels the pads of Jon’s fingers at his mouth, pressing insistently upon his lower lip. </p><p>Almost on instinct Tim opens his mouth. </p><p>“Maybe you need something in your mouth to keep you quiet. Can’t have you distracted, can we?” </p><p>And that’s not <em> fair, </em> is it, to say to a man whose whole body is already trembling with need? Tim takes the statements as the invitation it is, though, and wastes no time in wrapping his lips around the fingers. A demonstration-- a performance-- that feels just short of ritual. </p><p>Jon’s not wrong about it helping him quiet. These fingers, laying heavy and possessive on his tongue, are enough to keep Tim busy for a week. But still-- and he’s greedy, he knows, but-- he can’t help but shift with impatience. Tim <em> needs </em> more, needs to touch Jon, needs anything that he can get and everything that Jon will give him.</p><p>The sounds of Jon getting back to work. </p><p>The tape recorder clicks on. Jon’s voice. The tape recorder clicks off. There’s a rhythm to it, now that this is all there is. </p><p>And of course, Jon talks to him. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, when he’s talking to the recorder and when he’s talking to Tim. He uses the same aloof tone for both, a running commentary of professional notes and lewd comments-- compliments, corrections, little notes that tether Tim to the ground as his thoughts grow hazy. </p><p>“Keep back straight for me-- wouldn’t want Martin to catch you slumping, do we?” Jon murmurs. </p><p>And Jon says, “I love the way you lean into my hand whenever you think there’s a chance I’ll pull your hair. Needy.”</p><p>Sometimes Jon doesn’t say anything, and then Tim can really focus on the plug, on the solid ache of his knees, on how each second has started to stretch, heavy and ponderous, and how he’s lost track of them all. It doesn’t matter. It’s all the now of need, and he’s aware through all of this of the desire pooling in his stomach, the heartbeat he can feel ricocheting through his body. </p><p>And sometimes Jon says-- “Lovely. Look at how good you are now that you’ve got someone to kneel for.”</p><p>Tim shivers at that, but somewhere in the haze is the knowledge that he has to keep quiet to be good, and he wants <em> that. </em> He wants Jon to know<em>, </em> to <em> see </em>how badly Tim wants to be good for him.</p><p>At some point he stops hearing which words Jon is saying-- just basks in the sound of his voice, rising and guiding him slowly back down. At some point Jon’s hand leaves his mouth and finds his face, his shoulders. That hand draws him out of the haze as it strokes across his chest, down his stomach-- and he <em> has </em> been good, so maybe-- </p><p>Jon’s other hand takes Tim’s jaw and angles it up. The words that come through are more than sound; they are clear and firm and make Tim flush with new heat.  </p><p>“If you want to come today, you’re going to have to ask for it.” </p><p>“Whatever you want, boss,” Tim says, quietude forgotten. </p><p>“I was afraid you’d say it like that. I don’t want you just to <em> ask</em>,” Jon clarifies. “I want you to beg. Don’t worry-- you’ll know when you’re there.”</p><p>And Jon’s trailing hand finds its mark, Tim’s neglected cock <em> jumping </em> at the lightest touch. </p><p>“God, that’s good,” Tim sighs against the feeling. </p><p>“Mm. You’ve been more patient than I’d anticipated. I think you deserve a reward.”</p><p>Tim gives a sharp grin. “Just trying to get me worked up, aren’t you?” </p><p>“You’ll beg prettier that way.” </p><p>“You better-- <em> fuck, Jon </em>-- make me,” Tim gasps as Jon hitches up the vibration at the same moment he twists his wrist at the head of his cock, and the feeling doesn’t just rattle through his body-- it consumes him, wraps around him and eats him whole. </p><p>“I have to admit,” Jon says. “I thought you’d be harder to crack. But all it takes is something in your ass to get you doing whatever I want.”</p><p>Tim can’t find the words to respond. His body curls towards Jon, but the plug doesn’t stop-- its buzz only feels more insistent, more pressing down that it’s matched with Jon’s hand.</p><p>“You want more than this?” Jon murmurs. “Do you want to come? Do you want me to fuck you?”</p><p>Tim laughs-- a hoarse, bewildered thing. “Is that a question?” </p><p>“Then ask.” </p><p>“Please let me, boss, God-- <em> please </em>--” </p><p>“Hm. Not quite convinced.” </p><p>Tim sways on his knees as Jon leans forwards. He feels liquid, hazy-- drunk, almost, on the way that Jon’s hand moves over him. </p><p>“Let me tell you what I want from you,” Jon says. He presses his lips to Tim’s neck and Tim's shaking legs almost give out at the heat. Jon mouths along the column of his throat, murmuring in between lingering kisses. </p><p>“I want you to turn that face towards me, flushed and desperate--” Jon says. “I want to hear your voice tremble. I want you to beg me not because you want to, but because you have no other choice-- because you need it <em> that bad</em>.” Jon pauses, his mouth hovering over Tim’s skin. “I want you to give in to me. And then I’ll give you what you deserve.” </p><p>Tim can feel it, the wall. Jon’s words wrap around him firm and cool as the suede against his wrists. </p><p>He shivers, arching into Jon’s touch. “Jon, I <em> need </em>--” </p><p>“Do you, now?” </p><p>“Please, just--Jon--” Another shuddering breath as Jon’s hand picks up again, faster this time, with intent. </p><p>“Just what? Use your words.” Condescending <em> prick </em>-- and Jesus Christ, it’s hot. </p><p>Tim’s legs tremble and he leans himself against Jon, bracketed by his body. “Please let me be good for you,” he manages. At Jon’s silence he pushes on, and the words tumble out like rockfall, like avalanche. “I’ll be good. Just want your hands on me, just want-- <em> fuck</em>, just want you, Jon.” </p><p>“Oh?” </p><p>“I--” his breath stutters on its way out. “Anything you want. Don’t even have to do the work, Jon, I’ll ride you, if you want, I’ll make it good, or like this-- or--” he manages, and he’s not even sure he’s still stringing together sentences, just words, phrases. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. His body <em> quakes </em> with it.”I want you. I want-- just <em> please. </em>” </p><p>And that’s all he has-- everything he has pushed into one word, breathy and full of more than he can say.</p><p>His heart hammers against his rib cage, his body one writhing pulse.</p><p>Before Jon can respond, Tim’s blood runs cold. </p><p>A hand on the back of his neck. Heavy, warm, the pressure of it as unyielding as it is familiar. </p><p>“Well, this is certainly a sight,” Martin says.</p><p>“A welcome surprise, I hope. Tim didn’t give me many options-- spent all day asking for it. </p><p>“Oh, I bet he did.” </p><p>Jon’s hand is still moving on his dick and Tim can’t hold back a moan. And <em> Martin’s </em> here, and Tim is going to die<em>. </em> </p><p>And it’s going to be <em> so good. </em> </p><p>Tim’s never resented the strip of fabric across his eyes more than he does in this moment. </p><p>“Don’t stop on my account,” Martin says. “How’s he been for you?” His hand flexes on Tim’s neck and almost on instinct Tim straightens up, forces his muscles into the pattern that Martin has spent so long on helping him perfect. </p><p>“He’s done his best to cause problems,” Jon comments idly, like his hand isn’t pulling Tim apart piece by piece, laying him open and moaning under his touch. Tim can’t even bring himself to object; being talked about like this-- it’s <em> good</em>. “I think he’s just about ready to cooperate now, though.” </p><p>“Sounded like it.”</p><p>“Oh, yes, I thought you’d like that.” </p><p>Tim’s mind almost shorts out at the thought-- he hadn’t heard Martin come in, so wrapped up in touch and shock and pleasure to pay attention. How long had Martin been standing there silent, watching Tim <em> writhe? </em> </p><p>“Jon, can I--?” Martin doesn’t manage to make it to the end of his sentence. After a moment, Tim can hear why-- the soft, wet noises of kissing above him. Like they’ve <em> forgotten </em> about him, like his desire is secondary, just here to look good; Tim’s hips jump in Jon’s hands and he can feel it hovering just beyond this touch. Just a little more-- </p><p>The sounds break off above him. </p><p>“I know that look,” Martin mutters. “He’s enjoying himself too much.” </p><p>“Can’t have that,” Jon agrees. His hand slows to a torturous slide that sets Tim’s veins on fire but not like he <em> needs</em>. Tim’s breath comes hard and if he had the words in him he would curse-- as it is he just leans back into Martin’s touch, a silent plea. </p><p>“On the other hand, he did ask so nicely. What was it that he wanted, again?” Martin says. </p><p>“He was begging for my cock, I believe.” The way he says it, almost <em> conversational</em>, has Tim shuddering.  </p><p>“Not a surprise. Always a bit of a slut, this one. Especially when he gets like this.”</p><p>“Would you like--?” Jon starts. </p><p>“Whatever you like, Jon. You seem to have a handle on things.” </p><p>Jon’s hand slows further, almost thoughtfully. It makes Tim want to <em> bite. </em>“Right,” Jon says. “Right. Well, I don’t want to go back on my word. And Tim did promise to make it worth my while.” </p><p>“I’m sure he did.” </p><p>A soft thud on the carpet and it seems Martin has come to settle beside him, level to murmur into his ear. “Gorgeous thing. Let’s get you what you need.” </p><p>Tim lets out a long breath as Martin reaches for the plug still buried in him and works it in and out of him gently, insistently, pulling it out just enough that the return is a stretch again. Martin’s steadying hand doesn’t leave Tim’s neck all the while, and Tim anchors himself to it, one point to keep him drawn up against all the sensation dragging him towards release. </p><p>“Seems like he’s still managing to enjoy himself plenty,” Jon comments. </p><p>“Hard to stop him. But I think he’s lovely when he’s spoiled.”</p><p>“As nice as when he’s been punished?” </p><p>“Hm, hard to say. I think he’s more eager to please this way.” </p><p>Tim can hear the grin in Jon’s voice. “I think he’s best when he knows his place, however he gets there,” Jon says. “And he always gets there.” </p><p>Martin pulls the plug free and replaces it with his fingers-- goes right to two, doesn’t waste any time-- and Tim <em> keens </em> at the feeling. Deeper than the plug right away, and when Martin crooks his fingers inside, it’s almost over for Tim then and there. It’s only the knowledge of how Jon might look at him, how he would’ve <em> failed </em> if he came without <em> permission, </em> that keeps his ragged ends from unravelling entirely. </p><p>Martin is relentless-- knows how long Tim’s waited for this, probably. </p><p>“Please,” Tim gasps. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, but he makes himself say it again. “Please, I--” and he doesn’t know who he’s pleading to.</p><p>The hands on his body disappear and before Tim can object he’s being guided to his feet. </p><p>“I think he’ll find his job easier if he can see, don’t you?” Martin suggests. </p><p>“Suppose you’re right. If you could close your eyes for me, Tim.” </p><p>It’s second nature to do as he says. Even with his eyes shut, though, there’s a sudden brightening when they remove the blindfold. Slowly, dazedly, Tim blinks his eyes open.</p><p>It is <em> enormously </em>vindicating to see how obviously affected Jon is-- by his voice alone, Tim would’ve thought he’s been unbothered this whole time. If Jon looks like this, though, his pupils wide and his face flushed with an almost wild light, Tim can only imagine the state he’s in himself. </p><p>“Oh, he’s further along than I thought,” Martin comments, the broad pad of his thumb coming up to sweep away the tears pricking at the edges of Tim’s eyes. “Poor thing.” </p><p>“He’s hardly been suffering, isn’t that right, Tim?”</p><p>Tim shrugs, marveling at the warmth of Martin at his back, the figure of Jon before him. He doesn’t know which one he wants more-- can feel Martin hard behind him and grinds down almost on instinct. It’s worth it for the noise Martin makes, the low groan. It almost distracts him from the fact that Jon’s taking off his trousers, taking himself in hand-- Tim feels paralyzed, trapped between two magnets. “Jesus <em> Christ. </em>”  </p><p>“None of that,” Martin says. “Don’t make us regret taking the blindfold off. You do want to see Jon when he comes, don’t you?”</p><p>And he hadn’t even thought about that-- but he nods vigorously enough to earn a chuckle from Martin. </p><p>“Go on then,” Martin says. “Make it good for him.” Without further ado, Martin uses his hand on Tim’s neck to send him stumbling forwards, right into Jon’s waiting lap.</p><p>A crinkling foil and Jon is slipping a condom over his cock. Tim’s legs feel weak as a foal’s, but he’s not going to let that get in the way of making the most of this. This is his <em> life</em>. He gets <em> this-- </em> and the wonder of it flushes through him at the same moment he starts to lower himself onto Jon. </p><p>Jon sighs, a breathy, satisfied noise, as Tim bottoms out. This is still a stretch, straddling the line between discomfort and pain, and it makes him almost dizzy with how good it feels. </p><p>“Are you going to make him wait for it?” Martin inquires. </p><p>Shaking his head to clear it enough to focus on the task at hand, Tim starts to cant his hips in earnest, revelling in the<em> sounds </em>it draws out of Jon. </p><p>It’s hard to get leverage like this, his arms still drawn behind his back, but Tim is nothing if not persistent. He grinds down hard and it feels like liquid gold, feels like he’s finally <em> full. </em> None of the grasping, the half-words and fraying nerves-- here he is, whole and certain and <em> adored</em>. It’s not long before his rhythm starts to stutter, his breath catching harder and harder in his throat. </p><p>“Not yet, sweetheart,” Martin croons in his ear. “Show us how good you can be, come on.” </p><p>Jon’s hands dig into his hips, blunt nails pressing against his skin.  Almost as if he can read Tim’s mind, Martin’s nails drag across Tim’s chest, leaving angry red marks in their wake. </p><p>“Martin, god, <em> fuck,” </em>Tim hisses. </p><p>“You’ve done so well for us so far-- look at you, absolutely wrecked for it.” Tim doesn’t even know which of them says it, because at that’s the moment Martin chooses to bury a hand in his hair, put the other on his wrists, and use the grip to force his body to arch, to <em> bow </em> under it.</p><p>Whatever words he has are just <em> gone </em> when Jon thrusts up and the new angle is deeper and it hits there -- that’s his brain out the window, just gone like that. </p><p>“Oh, do that again, Jon. Lovely little noise there,” Martin murmurs.  </p><p>Jon does, and another little cry punches out of Tim. Is it embarrassing, being played like this, like some sort of instrument? He just knows that it feels <em> good. </em>  </p><p>Tim’s hips work, his thighs protesting but his body singing with it. He’s saying something, he thinks-- begging, maybe, but it barely feels like his mouth. Everything’s narrowed down to this, this desperate enveloping need, the little line on Jon’s face as his brow creases in concentration. </p><p>“Fuck, Martin,” and this time it’s Jon saying it, his breath stuttering. “I want--” </p><p>Martin laughs, open and a little sly. “Forgot that Tim hasn’t been the only one waiting. Can’t blame you.” He wrenches at Tim’s hair, tipping his head back and baring his throat. “I’ll take it from here.” </p><p>Jon’s hips jerk up into Tim as his hands press him down and Jon comes with a cry muffled in the juncture of his shoulder. Tim rolls his hips down through it, his heart racing with something else at the shudders of pleasure rippling through Jon. </p><p>“So good for Jon,” Martin murmurs. “Are you ready to come?”  </p><p>“Been ready-- God.” Tim gives a low groan as Jon pulls out, <em> handles </em> him so that he’s on his knees on the sofa cushions. “Been ready for <em> years</em>.” </p><p>“That’s good to hear, Tim. Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Martin says. “Too bad though. You’ll just have to wait til I’ve had my turn.”</p><p>The noise Tim makes when Martin sinks into him is barely human, a ragged, raw groan that settles in the hollow of his chest. Martin snaps his hips forwards, sharp and unyielding, and Tim forgets how to breathe. </p><p>He remembers somewhere in there-- he’s sure he does, since he’s still alive, but with Martin driving into him and Jon’s hands petting softly over his hair, he’s not sure there’s any air left in the room, any part of him that’s not wholly devoted to <em> this </em> in each tortuous, brilliant second. Martin’s unrelenting pace and Jon’s gentle touch wind together more securely than anything around his wrists and he feels carried on it, floating in warm seas.</p><p>He lets his head between his shoulders, presses his cheek to the sofa cushion, and he doesn’t have to take-- it’s all given, every touch on his shoulders, every lingering kiss pressed to his back. It’s everything and he doesn’t have to ask. </p><p>Martin reaches around to take Tim in hand and Tim <em> sobs </em> at it. “Please,” he manages. Whatever pleading words he can summon melt on his tongue as Martin starts to stroke him in earnest, timing it so that it matches with the rhythm of his hips. Tim pushes back onto Martin’s cock, forwards into his hand-- that driving, rolling, <em> frantic </em> heat teeters in him and Tim thinks he actually might die if Martin stops this time. </p><p>“What do you think, Jon?” Martin’s voice is a bit breathless. “Should we let him?” </p><p>“I-- he’s certainly worked for it.” </p><p>“Mm,” Martin agrees. “Do you think he can hold on a little while longer?” </p><p>Tim lets out a dismayed cry at that, shakes his head-- “Martin-- Jon--” </p><p>Jon runs his fingers through Tim’s hair, scratches against his scalp. “Just till Martin’s come,” he says. “You’ve been so good so far. You can do this for us.” </p><p>Tim hangs on to the ‘us’, to the line he can feel threading from Jon’s fingers out of Tim and into Martin, the net they’ve woven between them. He swallows around his need, his thighs shaking, his heart half-stopped in his chest. </p><p>The air tastes like <em> soon </em> and Martin’s hips snap faster, more erratically, punching irregular noises of something beyond pleasure from Tim. </p><p>“Gorgeous,” Jon murmurs, and Tim realizes that he’s not talking to him. Jon’s eyes are locked on Martin, his curls sticking sweaty to his forehead and his hands fixed vice-like on Tim’s hips. “Martin,” Jon says, and that says enough. Tim feels Martin come to a stuttering stop, buried to the hilt and half-draped over his back. </p><p>“God, Jon,” Martin says, his voice caught up in something dream-like for a moment. It’s not until Tim gives a low whine that Martin’s normal steadiness returns. “Wouldn’t want to forget about you, of course.” </p><p>Jon presses a kiss to the top of Tim’s head. “Go on for us, then.” </p><p>And Tim knows the rules-- he’s known this whole time what he cannot have, and he feels the that pressure disperse into the air, leaving him lighter than ever. As Martin’s hand works him over, drags an orgasm that shudders out of him and almost <em> hurts </em> it’s so intense, Tim feels absolutely weightless. Not untethered, unbound, but something boneless, something <em> sweet</em>. </p><p>When his brain returns to his head and his heart to his chest, Martin’s already started to clean things up a bit. Condoms in the bin, toys to be cleaned. Jon cleaning him up, removing the handcuffs with a quiet click and pressing the softest kisses to the insides of his wrists. Tim feels fit to <em>purr</em>.</p><p>“Sorry to interrupt,” he manages, gesturing at Martin’s work. “But I believe I need to be cuddled-- at least to near death if not all the way there.” </p><p>“The man makes a point,” Jon says. </p><p>Martin holds up his hands in mock surrender. “You say that like I would argue it any other way. Normally Tim’s the one buzzing around right after. You really did a number on him this time, Jon.” </p><p>Jon flushes under the praise and Tim is caught by a wave of affection that he assures himself is related to the dopamine treating his body like Noah’s goddamn ark. </p><p>“Are you getting over here, or am I going to have to drag you into the deeps myself?” Tim interjects. </p><p>“Someone’s in a hurry.” Martin sits down at one end of the sofa, Jon at the other, and Tim stretches himself between them, relishing the give of Martin’s lap and the way Jon’s hands trail absently over his knees. Such easy affection-- it washes over him like sunlight, leaving him warm and glowing with it. </p><p>“You know me, Marto. When it comes to a cuddle, I’m vicious.” </p><p>“An absolute demon,” Jon agrees.</p><p>Tim shoots him a playfully aggrieved look. “Says the man who decided to <em> work </em> right after getting me riled up?” </p><p>“In my defense, I wasn’t actually working. That was just to teach you a lesson.” </p><p>Martin’s look of bewilderment shifts to amusement. “You’ll have to tell me about it later.” </p><p>“Later,” Tim agrees. “For now-- this.” </p><p>“This is good,” Jon says. </p><p>And it is.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for checking this out! This fic took a little longer than I intended to finish, but a straight 5k of smut does not actually come out all that easily from the ole brain of mine, it turns out. As always, comments are a boon and anything you want to leave I will absolutely adore!! There are some slight edits on chapter 1 since it originally went up, and no doubt at some point I will re-revise this bit as well, but for now this is my little ode to the dynamic that drove me absolutely Wild from Triptych! Sometimes you think about how much Tim loves his partners and you just go a little crazy.</p><p>On a side note-- given that this is within a very explicitly d/s relationship, I'm assuming everything in this scene has been negotiated beforehand and though the situation is a little impromptu, there's nothing that goes beyond what they're all comfortable with.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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